by Eric Swanson
“If their regular season matchups were any indication, the fans are in for a treat, Xenophon!” Sallast said, a wide smile on her face.
“Quite true, Sallast! Word is that many of the Ceran Division Antisar players will be in attendance, given the retirement rumors surrounding Jor Mikan.”
Jor was the latest in a long line of Mikan family superstars of the sport. Their family had represented Block A for generations and Jor was widely considering to be the finest player the clan had ever produced.
“Fans the world over will be on the edge of their seats, watching to see if Jor Mikan can will his team to another victory and himself to a slightly longer farewell tour!” Xenophon said, nodding at the camera for emphasis.
“Be sure to watch out for increased traffic around King Trey Square as the Royal Family’s celebration of the 400th anniversary of the Gathering nears! Word is, this will be the largest commemoration of the Gathering, the most pivotal event in Ceran history. We’ll be sure—”
“SAMI. Kill the lights and screen.” Micah commanded and walked once more through a nearly totally dark apartment. Micah laid a black hooded shirt over his gray undergarment and flipped the black hood up. From the side, only the tip of his nose was visible and shadow covered his face under the cowl. Micah took the last steps toward his entrance to the rest of the world. He pressed his thumb against a small panel on the front door and it slid open with a sharp sound. “Don’t let the place burn down while I’m gone, SAMI. See you tonight.”
“Of course, sir. Goodbye.”
SAMI spoke to an empty, black apartment.
The Walk
0635 Hours
Two members of the Koroaikusi (Koro-Koo, for short) stood on opposite sides of Micah’s door. Selected and trained in threat detection and mitigation from a very early age, most Koro-Koo developed into stoic adults. The night sentries tasked with protecting both Micah and the secret of his identity let no one come within ten feet of their post. Slate gray eyes stared from both faces. Alert and scanning their surroundings as Micah’s door slid open, the pair settled on either side of him as he stepped onto the walkway.
Identical twins Roomen and Reeman had been trained, like all other naturally occurring sets of twins on Ceres, in the arts of combat. Both stood over seven and a half feet tall and weighed more than two hundred and ninety pounds. Imposing figures no matter their choice of dress, their form fitting black body suits lent an appearance much like living specters of death. Reeman had long ago decided that a clean shorn skull was preferable to the hassle of managing hair and looked slightly older than his brother in part because of that choice.
He was born two minutes prior to Roomen.
“Good day to the two of you.” Micah nodded to both as they walked the open path outside his apartment, side by side by side. His hood bobbed with his head but still served its purpose (obscuring his face). Micah smiled and his eyes narrowed to slits, the bright blue almost disappeared.
“Good morning, sir.” Reeman spoke formally, without looking at Micah. His deep voice echoed off the gray stone around them. Like his brother, Reeman’s eyes sought out threats in all directions as they traveled.
A few paces into their silent journey, Micah saw a Hybrid who often encamped at the edges of the Hybrid blocks. Over the course of many years, Micah often saw the Hybrid seated on the concrete path just before it transitioned to copper-colored steel scaffolding. The elderly Hybrid sat, as usual, cross-legged and gently rocking back and forth, his face angled toward the dark morning sky.
While Micah often saw Ephraim, the elderly Hybrid with no family name, Ephraim’s blindness kept him from seeing anything. Wispy white hair fell from his head to Ephraim’s shoulders and a scraggly beard the same shade grew from his face. Ephraim eyes were taken from him just after his fourteenth birthday, followed by a kidney and (on several occasions) blood plasma.
“He’s there again, Micah.” Rooman said quietly, without looking in Micah’s direction.
“He’s harmless, Room.” Micah said with a small smile. “He just likes the idea that someone sees him, you know?”
“The Hooded One comes…” Ephraim said. Age, improper nutrition and neglect gave his voice a rasp and a waver. His Ceran family allowed him to sleep in a separate cabin near their home but Ephraim wasn’t allowed on property during daylight hours.
“As I do most mornings, Ephraim.” Micah said as he slowed his gait.
The cool early morning air blew past Micah’s hood and rustled his jet-black hair a bit. He leaned nearer to the seated old Hybrid and Ephraim’s face shifted toward him a bit. Thickly scarred flesh, some a matte flesh color and some slightly shinier covered where his eyes formerly resided. The shinier skin caught the light from the lamps above them and Micah immediately thought of how Ephraim’s eyes might have reflected the same light.
“So what’s on the docket today, Mr. Hood?” Ephraim stood, slowly, gingerly and with a number of crackle-pops from joints all over his aged body.
“Pretty typical day, Ephraim…” Micah said as he placed a hand softly on Ephraim’s frail shoulder. “How about you?”
“I’m headed back in…” Ephraim said. His face fell to the ground below them, resigned to his fate. He patted his chest lightly before the sightless Hybrid pulled his head back up. “They’re taking more…”
Behind Micah, Rooman and Reeman exchanged nervous, slightly guilty looks. Their family, while not particularly wealthy, had a “small cache of genetic material for their use…” otherwise known as a single Hybrid mined for their parts. Privately, the twins discussed the role that Hybrid played in the health and maintenance of their family. Both leaned toward freeing their Hybrid of obligation to their family once their parents passed on, but only expressed those thoughts within the confines of those private talks.
“Can they?” Micah asked quietly. The last few times Ephraim had been mined for any materials, organs or plasma, he returned to his place in the walkway frail and near death. Micah had tried after his last visit to the Pillar’s medical facility to lobby on his behalf with the Royals, but they couldn’t use their station to save Ephraim without revealing facts that might lead to Micah’s identity. “I mean…”
“They can’t without…” Ephraim shrugged a bit. The old Hybrid was resigned to whatever fate he faced. Ephraim sighed and a ragged breath left him. “Have they…” He reached toward Micah and the back of his hand brushed the hood over Micah’s face. He touched Micah’s face and his fingers moved toward the Mimic’s now-closed eyes. “Taken anything from you…”
“I’ve…” Micah stammered. He meant to say something about how his life isn’t really his, that the nature of his life led to a complete lack of control, agency… “I can’t begin to compare how I live to…”
“No need to, brother.” Ephraim smiled and pronounced wrinkles appeared on his face. The scars over the former home of his eyes crinkled a little and Ephraim shook his head at the sensation. “You can only walk the path laid out for you…”
“I wish I could change yours…” Micah said in a whispered voice.
“Do the best you can on your path, brother.” Ephraim said as he pulled Micah into an embrace. Close physical contact with Ephraim made clear to Micah just how fragile the old Hybrid was, skin and bones nearly all that was beneath his tattered clothing. “Help who you can. If it’s not me you can help, that’s alright… Someone who needs you more will come along…”
“I’ll see you when you get back, Ephraim.” Micah said. He and the twins turned back onto the path toward the rest of Micah’s repeated day and Ephraim knew their departure began when their footfalls echoed further from him.
“See you soon, Mr. Hood.” Ephraim called after the Mimic. A momentary smile shifted his face before a more resigned and forlorn expression replaced it. As slowly as he’d risen to his feet, Ephraim creaked, popped and crackled back to his seated position.
Both Hybrids knew that conversation was likely their last.
&nb
sp; An air of sadness hung over the twins and their protected walking mate as they stepped down the path toward a turn in the steel path. Roomen and Reeman took turns encouraging each other to break the silence that followed Micah’s chat with Ephraim, but neither could muster the courage nor an appropriate subject to break the quiet.
As the trio approached an elevator, a more complete view of the Hybrid Blocks became possible. While mostly non-descript, monochromatic and functional in appearance, the blocks were kept up very nicely. No refuse littered any of the corridors, no markings of any kind defaced the cold external walls of the living spaces.
Once the elevator began to rise with all three inside, its glass walls gave way to a stunning panoramic view of the capital city of Ceran. Beyond the stoic gray Hybrid Blocks (26 alphabetically named blocks), high-rise buildings of massive size which each housed over 100,000 Hybrids, the rest of the city shone. Clean glass buildings, shining lights and brightly lit skyways linking buildings marked the Ceran portion of the capital city.
In the center of the city, a shorter but dramatically polished building stood. Some 700 feet tall and a fraction of the size of a Hybrid block, the white shining pillar (which residents called The Pillar) in the middle of the city was the home of the Royal Family and their court. As the elevator reached the top of the Hybrid blocks, Micah came face to face with a 400-foot-tall statue of King Artax the Just, monarch of Ceres.
Flowing hair and clear eyes looking out over the city (toward the Royal Court and its gleaming white walls) gave the statue a regal, noble appearance. Micah stared at the bronze-hued work of art for a moment. In that moment, anyone could have seen the truth Micah’s hood usually concealed:
Micah and King Artax were nearly as identical as the former’s guards.
Eyes. Hair. Nose. Facial contours.
Even the way the statue showed King Artax’s eyes narrowing with a smile spread over his face.
Their similar appearance was no accident. After the Gathering, the tens of thousands of captive humans were sampled for genetic material and assessed. Those taken all met very strict criteria, the most obvious being that all 144,000 of the taken had Type O Negative blood. Other common traits included lighter complexion and hair colors with a small handful of those taken looking more like Micah. Micah’s ancestors were found during the initial assessment to have a great deal of genetic compatibility with the Royals, so they were assigned exclusively to the monarchy.
Early in humanity’s time on Ceres, they were catalogued and manipulated on a genetic level to easily serve as sources of genetic material for the Ceran population. This took the form of some barbarism early on but evolved into something much more compassionate as the Hybrids spent more time on Ceran. The manipulation of their genes to mesh with the Ceran population is what created the Hybrids.
Micah’s ancestral genetic stock had served as a resource for the Royals of Ceres for every moment of the four centuries since the Gathering. Now, part of the service Micah was called to entailed impersonating the King in public to provide an extra layer of security. In a more concrete manner, most of his Hybrid brothers and sisters served their respective purposes with pieces of their bodies. Viewed through that paradigm, Micah counted himself remarkably lucky. He truly served the purposes of the Pillar and the family within it. Conversely, life as a Hybrid in nearly every other corner of Pillar-Led Ceres was fraught with worry, moment by moment, that some part of you might be called to serve within or attached to a body of a Ceran patron family member.
Generally, the number of Hybrids allotted to a Ceran family was directly correlated to the wealth, fame, prestige of that family or some amalgam of that trio of factors. In an effort to maintain the genetic stock in total, the Ceran approach to the deployment of that stock was closely managed. As a function of that management, less esteemed families in Ceran society had limited access to their pool of genetic resources.
The family of Roomen and Reeman only had a single Hybrid from whom to draw needed material. He wasn’t used often and treated as a complete equal in their house. Their shared affection for the family Hybrid heavily influenced the twins’ quest to serve a Royal Hybrid upon completion of their Initial Training.
Dream achieved, the pair walked proudly next to the single most vital Hybrid on the planet every day.
“Did you catch much of the game last night, Micah?” Reeman asked, eyes still everywhere but on Micah himself.
“I didn’t, I was out with Davin.” Davin, King Artax’s seventeen-year-old son, spent time with Micah regularly. Davin leaned on Micah for honest advice and even more honest feedback on Davin’s writing, music and sporting exploits. The boy was gifted in many ways but quite humble and enjoyable to be around. His short black hair and shining blue eyes matched both Micah and Davin’s father perfectly. “I caught some highlights after I got home.”
“Did you see Ravin’s double move in the first half?” Roomen asked, joining the conversation.
Ravin played for the Ceran Antisar squad, the Red Horns. A young phenom only a single full season into his career, Ravin was already entering discussions around all-time greats of the sport. The trio continued to discuss the game, some star players and pondered the outcome of hypothetical Ceran vs. Hybrid contests.
After a few minutes and a pair of animated discussions, they crossed the highest skyway into Block A and stopped at a non-descript door at the end of a long corridor. Marked with an indented 551-14, the unit belonged to Eaton Zane.
Breakfast with Eaton
0755 Hours
Micah rapped on the door lightly, but the sound bounced about the hallway behind him anyway. Micah was sure Eaton’s neighbors loathed his early arrivals but he never heard from them. The hooded visitor to Old Man Zane on so many mornings was a mystery.
A series of mechanical clicks came from the door as locks disengaged. The door opened, and Eaton’s nurse stood before Micah, smiling as much as fatigue would allow. Soft purple bags lay under her eyes and told the story of life with an aging Hybrid unable to care for himself. Slightly graying brown hair was cut to about chin length. Her face bore lines of a woman who glowered more often than smiled.
“We’ll be out here, Micah.” Reeman said and both brothers took up posts on either side of Eaton’s entryway.
“Thanks, guys.” Micah nodded and stepped into the unit. Without turning back, he spoke before the door closed. “About an hour, I think.”
“He’s awake and waiting, Micah.” Gale Floren addressed him as she walked back into the apartment. A veteran field nurse of several key battles in the latter Filan Wars, Gale was no stranger to long nights. Decades removed from her time patching up fighters in the Hybrid combat units, she willingly traded bloody days for hard nights. “I can’t promise you’ll have much time with him today, but he asked about you throughout the night. I’m sure he’ll try to stay awake for you.”
Eaton’s living space was smaller than Micah’s and somehow less ornate. A few photos of Eaton (almost Micah’s twin, but shorter hair) decorated the walls. Eaton standing with black-clad members of the Koro-Koo, Eaton with members of the Royal Family and other dignitaries. The last photo on the wall showed Eaton holding a black Antisar ball and dressed in a white and blue Quasars jersey. His jet-black hair was beginning to gray at his temples and crow’s feet wrinkles at the corner of both eyes crept out far more than Micah’s.
Like Micah, his eyes nearly disappeared into his narrowed eyelids when he smiled.
“Seems like a lifetime ago.” The old man hoarsely commented. Eaton Zane laid in a narrow white bed with sheets and a blanket pulled up near his chest. A small rack of machines and monitors next to him were connected to a bundle of wires that ran under his sheets and were attached to Eaton. He smiled like in the photos, wrinkles more pronounced, hair far thinner and nearly all white as his bedsheets.
Micah closed the distance between them with a few steps and sat in the chair to the right of Eaton.
“Just like the last time yo
u stopped by, Micah. A lifetime ago.” Eaton laughed softly then began a brief coughing fit. Micah took his hand as the old man hacked, wet sounds coming from his mouth.
After a moment and a drink from a glass at his bedside, Eaton settled back into his bed. He still smiled.
“We saw each other last week, E.” Micah replied. He returned the older man’s smile.
“Oh, I remember. I’m old. I’m dying.” Eaton said. He raised his other hand and playfully pointed at Micah. “But I’m not senile. Not losing anything up here.” He tapped his temple with the same pointing finger. He broke eye contact with Micah and looked at his wrinkled hands for a moment. “But to a dying man, a day could be the rest of his life.”
“You aren’t dying today, Eaton.” Micah said with kindness. His tone shifted to something more mischievous. “Gale only has to work here another week before she can retire. Stick it out.”
Both men laughed as hardily as their bodies allowed and as before, Eaton’s laughter was followed by barking coughs.
“Oh, stop it Eaton.” Gale said as she came toward the foot of the bed. She smiled and looked at Micah. “You know this is all an act, right? He’s making a play for playoff seats in the Royal Suite. Once the Q’s win another title, he’ll be right back to all that jogging.” She carried a tray with two covered plates. Before extending the legs of the tray, she held it nearer to Micah and he took one of the covered dishes.
“Thank you, Gale.”
“Sure, Micah.”
She took the covers and left the pair to their meal. Every so often, Micah had to help Eaton eat, but otherwise they talked without interruption.
“So, I hear you’re to spend a little more time with Sanballat.” Eaton broached the topic of the Ceran courtier Sanballat and let Micah lead the discussion.
“That’s the rumor. I’m not entirely sure what the point is of putting the two of us together like this. The entire court, the King and Queen, everyone knows his mind on the matter of… us.” Micah gestured between them during a pause. “In a way, I would almost prefer his pity over how he perceives us. At least that way, he’d seem less of a threat.”
